


Moonlight

by Puimoo



Category: DAYS (Anime & Manga)
Genre: Gen, M/M, previous Kiichi/Kimishita
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-14
Updated: 2018-02-14
Packaged: 2019-03-15 08:32:06
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,761
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13609545
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Puimoo/pseuds/Puimoo
Summary: This is the thing about Kimishita: he’s fucking beautiful.





	Moonlight

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kiyala](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kiyala/gifts).



> I really fell in love with your interpretation of Kiichi and Kimishita as exs, and I'm so frustrated that I wasn't able to do the idea justice. I wanted to explore the impact their past relationship would have on who they were now. Unfortunately, what you got was this, which has bits and pieces of what I was trying to do with your prompt but completely lacks any of the subtlety and feel I was aiming for. Thank you for some really thought provoking ideas, and apologies again for not being able to quite take it to the places you inspired in my mind :)

Kiichi finds Kimishita, he often does. It is the night before a big game and their team-mates are all asleep, so of course Kimishita is hidden away in a hallway somewhere, sitting in a deep windowsill and turned in from the world.

And this is the thing about Kimishita: he’s fucking beautiful. He wears anger like a dagger and annoyance like a cloak of thorns, and yet he can sit there, captured in the fragile hope of the moonlight and somehow seem ethereal. Guys shouldn’t have bramble eyes and pretty hair that shimmers through with threads of silver under this light. But then, they also shouldn’t wear the obnoxious pink and green monstrosity that passes as Kimishita’s shirt, so Kiichi guesses the universe is pretty much breaking even.

Besides. Kimishita might be beautiful when he has an assist from the moonlight, but Kiichi is _way_ hotter.

“Yo.” Kiichi’s voice practically booms, and he takes great delight in the way Kimishita instantly tenses. Nobody has the same ability to put Kimishita instantly on the defensive as Kiichi does. Fuck, he’s turned it into an actual art, although one without paintbrushes and all that stuff. “You do know we have a game tomorrow?”

Kimishita’s gaze narrows into an unspoken ‘moron’ as he turns towards him. The scowl twists at Kimishita’s lips, tearing them downwards and to the side even as Kimishita himself stretches up, slowly out of the sitting position that has held him in place for too long if the accompanying wince is any indication. How damn long has the idiot been here, alone in the moonlight and looking out onto who knows fuck? 

“Go back to bed, Kiichi.” Kimishita’s eyes spark dark, and there is a flash of dangerously white teeth. Kimishita’s morphs again now that he isn’t sloshed in moonlight and is instead standing tall; all lean legs, strong arms, and a jaw you could crack nuts on. The bramble eyes are still there, barbed and threatening to draw blood, even as his scowl shifts into something dirty, smirky. It’s such a sexy mouth, damn it, and Kiichi definitely wants to smack it. “Don’t you need your beauty sleep?”

Oooh.

And, look. 

Ok. 

So Kiichi maybe does need at least 10 hours of quality, uninterrupted sleep each night, but this is because he is not a cave child who stores insults in the bags beneath his eyes. But it’s also almost midnight and Kimishita is being a dick considering that Kiichi is here trying to rescue his sorry arse instead of getting a good night’s sleep before the final. As a result, Kiichi replies in the most diginified, intellectual manner that this situation deserves.

“Not gonna."

“You’re not the captain yet, you idiot.” There’s the familiar Kimishita bite, lashed with dark humor and just a little bit of good old fashioned barbed wire to make sure his comment stings. 

Kimishita lords over veiled comments like a slumlord does his ghetto of cardboard houses and garbage day parades, and Kiichi has gotten pretty damn good at sifting through his trash talk. The ‘ýet’ is both a reluctant promise and a threat looped into one, and Kiichi inadvertently straightens in an attempt to reach those silent heights that Kimishita sets for him. But Kimishita isn’t one to present praise on its lonesome, and Kiichi sorts easily through the delightful bouquet of ‘fuck-you’s’ that Kimishita is able to express with just one look.

 _fuck you, you don’t get to say that_  
_fuck you, you gave up the right to say that_  
_fuck you, for not being_ him

A familiar heat threatens around the edges of Kiichi’s conscious, burning holes in his good will and threatening to fray his thoughts into uselessness. Who the fuck cares about Mizuki, anyway? Kiichi is a better player, way better looking, faster, and cleverer-er.

Most importantly, Kiichi is here.

“We’re getting out of here.” Kiichi announces it, commands it, and therefore it must be done. Not even Kimishita and his sour mug or Mizuki and his icky, ghostly and invasive tendrils can keep Kiichi from grabbing a surprised Kimishita by the wrist and positively dragging him away from his window. Kimishita protests in that way he always does; obnoxious and loud and with a glare that could implode boulders, but it ends as it always does.

Kiichi wins, even as Kimishita’s coarse words echo throughout the stairwell and Kiichi has to keep a tight grip on his wrist. To be frank, victory comes with a shitty prize: a surely, unappreciative jerk who is currently not dealing at all with the tense, unrelenting anxiety that is always threatening just below the surface. And yeah, Kiichi loves to poke it and expose it, fuck with it until Kimishita explodes. The side of Kimishita that is never content – never feeling as though he is good enough – can sometimes work in his favour. Kiichi has seen it win them games.

But there are times like tonight, when the moonlight gets involved and there is a big game in the morning when Kimishita doesn’t just focus on all the things he needs to do well but is cataloguing in a big fucking filing cabinet all the ways he can – and will – screw up.

At the very least, Kiichi’s wayward attempt at an intervention should be awkward and doomed for failure. And yet, this – right now - is so easy and right. It always is between the two of them right up until the moments it’s not, and it becomes twisted and nasty and just shitloads of pain and distrust and accusations instead. His fingers tighten around Kimishita’s wrist possessively – childishly - and Kimishita swears hellfire under his breath, curdling the air.

Kiichi remembers what it was like to once smother those curses away with thick, harsh kisses. He remembers almost as strongly the smothering stench of Mizuki, and how it permeated each moment, each breath, each real and imaginary look- 

Kiichi shakes himself loose from those memories as they step out into the night air, the wind cutting close and Kimishita’s demanding, shitty gaze even closer.

“What now, idiot?”

Aw, Kimishita is so endearing in his stupidity. It’s clear that the best way to shift Kimishita out of his self-induced funk is the same as always, and Kiichi smiles his special ‘poor, stupid Kimishita’ grin that he reserves for moments just like this.

“We’re going to play a game, of course.”

Kimishita’s expression flattens, and Kiichi is reminded of that terrifying moment when all the water is sucked out away from the beach right before a tsunami hits. Kimishita’s silence is just as empty, easily as threatening, and it’s dumb as fuck because soccer is ALWAYS a goo-

Oh, shit.

So.

Fuck.

Perhaps dragging Kimishita out in the middle of the night for a quick game of one-on-one without thinking to maybe pick up a ball on the way is not the best idea Kiichi has ever had. He rebounds splendidly, a pious look in his eyes and a Roman set to his jaw.

“We’re playing imaginary soccer, naturally.” He really is magnificent. “It would be stupid – stupid! – to play with an actual ball right before a big game-”

“I’m going back to my room. Arsehole.” Kimishita cuts him off, ice cold and indifferent. He dares to turn away, striding away and giving up on everything Kiichi is at least trying to fucking make right. 

Fuck him. Fuck Kimishita and his holier than thou shit. Fuck him for thinking this ‘helping each other deal with crappy situations’ is only supposed to go one way and shitting on Kiichi being the hero for once.

“Remember the time you screwed up the pass in our middle grade final?” 

Kimishita exists three seconds from breaking point, and before Kiichi has had a chance to blink the other boy closes the gap between them again in a handful of quick, angry steps, his hands snarling in the collar of Kiichi’s shirt.

“How about the time when you couldn’t get a pass to anyone on the team even if we’d all been wearing Captain Cosplay outfits?” Kiichi sneers the next barb downwards, letting his words snare against the sharpness of Kiichi’s cheekbones and catch in the tight, grim corners of his mouth. Kimishita is ghastly now, pale and drawn and rippling through a dark festering self-doubt that strips all the colour from his skin, his eyes, his hair. 

“Why the hell are you bring all that shit up?” Kimishita tries to bark the words out, but they come out hoarse, useless. 

Kiichi wants to smack him, because it’s so fucking simple, so fucking obvious that he’s about to explode.

“Because I don’t know why the fuck you are so worried about screwing things up now. You screw things up all the time.” Who the hell does Kimishita think he is, some golden boy spun from endless talent and incredibly good looks? An untouchable genius? There’s only enough room for one of those in their team, and hello! Position already taken. Kimishita’s eye widen just a touch, allowing cobwebs and a hint of green to creep back in. Kiichi clings to that, aims to deepen that shade further into something more sustainable. “And you know what? So does Kazama. So does Usui. So does Mizuki.” Yeah, Kiichi takes an extra bit of pleasure biting out that last name on his list, but the thing is … the thing is there is a hint of a tremor running through Kimishita’s shoulders that has nothing to do with the moonlight, and Kimishita’s fingers turn numb as they start to fall away from where they have been tangled so tightly in Kiichi’s shirt, pulling the pair of them close enough to share the same icy air, the same harsh words. Kiichi plays by instinct and it is instinct that has his cold hands close sharply around Kimishita’s, keeping them pressed there against his chest as everything screams at him not to let him go

_Again._

Kiichi breathes, deep, continues.

“It’s not just them – not just you, you know?” Kiichi’s rambling now, desperate, but Kimishita is listening for once, trapped for once, and the only other thing Kiichi has aside from the truth is imaginary fucking soccer. “I may even have made a few mistakes myself. Occasionally.” That aches a little to admit because Kiichi claims victory in a traffic light change, but he’s also maybe, not exactly talking about soccer anymore. Kimishita’s gaze is hooded, hidden away and Kiichi is too much of a wimp to dip his head lower, to tilt Kimishita’s chin up, to let his knuckles rest in the curve of Kimishita’s cheekbones and his fingertips smear gently across the tell-tale grey smudges beneath those eyes.

Kimishita pull loose and backs away, turns away. There is silence, unbearable and threadbare as Kimishita looks back towards the building, hands on hips and gaze distant, away. When Kimishita drops his head down and lets out a drawn out groan, his hands clenching into fists, Kiichi’s heart skips.

He knows that groan. He knows those clenched fists.  
__

_He knows those hips,_  
_and fuck the moonlight for screwing_  
_with him like this._

“One game.” Kimishita is already clearly regretting his decision, but it is too late. “One game of your stupid, made-up, loser, imaginary soccer. Then I will beat you to death and go back to bed.”

Kiichi snorts, already having won the imaginary coin toss in his head and electing to go on the offence first.

“Like you can beat me at anything.” Kiichi taunts, ‘dribbling’ backwards until he is standing on the edge of the field. “First to ten goals?”

“I hate you,” Kimishita says, dull and a massive sucking void right up until the moment he steps onto the grass and breathes _fire._

And, yeah.

Ok.

So it turns out imaginary soccer is kind of stupid, especially at the beginning. But it’s easy, so easy to fall into a rhythm where he feels the ball between his feet and the weight of Kimishita’s gaze on his shoulders.

It becomes as easy as a real game, or one of the imaginary ones the two of them are so prone to falling into. It’s as easy as their daily twist and pull and shove, as easy as sharp words and edged gazes.

It’s as easy as a first, fumbling kiss sought out after a desperately hard loss.

As easy as an expensive lunch in an obscene restaurant, as a cheap and waxy ice cream on the beach.

As easy as a shared umbrella and heated cheeks.

As easy as calling Kimishita by his first name for the first time, and hearing that ridiculously casual ‘Kiichi’ in return.

As easy as lust.

And lingering touches.

And jealousy.

And fear.

And need.

And want.

And dread.

It’s as easy as a last, fumbling kiss to try and seek – to demand – reassurance that all this is real and not merely a stop gap. 

It’s as easy as letting go, instead of fighting for something you tore yourself up believing you never had.

Sometimes, Kiichi thinks as he steals the ball from Kimishita and lobs it perfectly towards the not-goal, it’s the things that have come easy to them both that they screw up the most. 

Kiichi wins their imaginary soccer game, because even when caught in the ease of the past Kiichi is awesome in tomorrow’s yesterday (he really does rock this philosophical stuff). Kimishita disputes the score, punching him on the shoulder and scowling deep and dark as he argues that it is impossible to win 12-7 in a first to 10, but for all of Kimishita’s smarts he’s shitty dumb in so many ways. And, yeah. Kiichi sees victory in his reflection and each time he’s actually part of the grade curve in class instead of merely excluded from it as some fucking ‘outlier’. But he _also_ takes his win in the hint of laughter that creases Kimishita’s brow, the relaxed slope of his shoulders, and-

And then suddenly Kiichi is lost, hopelessly and unredeemingly lost, as Kimishita stills for just a moment and catches Kiichi’s gaze. What he fuck is Kiichi supposed to do but drown in that flash of warmth that spills green and spark silver, enveloping Kiichi in something that has always been indisputably his?

  
_“Of course I don’t look at you like I look at the captain!” Kimishita is done, and it is etched into the stone of his gaze, stained in the gravel of his voice. “And if you can’t figure out why that is then it is your own fucking fault.” Kimishita pauses, and Kiichi thinks he is searching for something, waiting for something, but all he finds is Kiichi and of course that isn’t fucking enough. “It’s over, Kiichi. Whatever this was, it’s done. We’re done.”_

“If I’m tired in the morning, it’s all your fault.” Kimishita’s gaze never flickers, even as his threat pierces the cold air.

Totally worth it. 

It’s easy to forget that Kimishita never stopped calling Kiichi by his first name, even as Kiichi defaulted so quickly back into the distant safety and casual familiarity of ‘who they had been before.’

~~~

Morning burns bright and obnoxious, and Kiichi stumbles onto the field pre-game in a blur of vengeful thoughts and lingering nightmares-slash-wholly-inappropriate dreams. It helps that Kimishita looks a mess as well, but then a Kimishita with wind-wrecked hair and panda eyes could also be Kimishita on casual Tuesday.

“Oi, you owe me lunch after we win,” Kiichi grumbles as he bumps shoulders with Kimishita. It would be easy to leave it there, to rest on the easy banter that is sure to flow just as freely as it always does. Kiichi steals a glance sideways, his mouth suddenly dry and the world spinning just a little, perhaps just a touch. Easy sounds fucking great right now, but he’s been practising the next three words in front of the mirror all morning and he’s damned if he is going to sit with this all through the game. “Got it, Atsushi?” 

The name sounds thick and foreign on Kiichi’s tongue, too heavy with meaning and past hurts. Surely it should have been whispered instead in the moonlight, or saved for somewhere steeped in meaning? But then Kimishita is looking at him for just a moment with those startled, brilliant eyes and Kiichi thinks that – shit – it isn’t the moonlight that makes Kimishita so magical, after all.

“Whatever,” Atsushi grunts, the tiniest of smiles tugging at his lips before it is smothered aggressively away. “But you’re paying.”


End file.
